


Too Late

by CowMow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Non-Reunion, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CowMow/pseuds/CowMow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No, Sherlock, I am not coming back. Not ever. Do you hear me? Never."<br/>Sherlock is finally able to look his feelings for John straight in the eyes, but he comes two years too late. Sherlock tries to move on from the love of his life, while John cuts pictures of Sherlock out of the newspapers.<br/>Life goes on. Can these two men move on too?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hell, I will just post this here. *Fingers crossed*

Too Late, a BBC Sherlock fanfiction

Chapter 1  
"No, Sherlock, I am not coming back. Not ever. Do you hear me? Never." John stands in the doorway to his small Cardiff flat, his hands on his hips, his eyes fiercely warning his former friend not to keep repeating his request.

John has such a mild and agreeable character, that his dangerous side, easily overlooked, grows even more powerful when he finally wants his orders to be followed. It is so easy to forget that he had been in command of a platoon to lead them through a warzone. Agreed, John is also a doctor who saves lives and seems to have eternal patience, but when John finally loses that patience and firmly states that he wants to be obeyed, all softness and kindness is replaced by inextinguishable fire.

The man his ire is aimed to has his hands buried deep in the pockets of his long black coat and stares with blank expression at his expensive Italian shoes.  
Every word John speaks lands on Sherlock as the crack of a whip. Sherlock thinks he would have preferred the whip. It would be better to have his skin cut by unforgiving leather than to know his future will be hell. 

No doctor intends to be cruel to a patient when amputating a limb, but that does not mean the empty cavity in his chest aches less. Lack of cruel intent doesn’t help. His mind is numb, only one thought keeps surfacing over and over again. 

Rain, not solid or heavy but persistent, soaks the few pedestrians who dare defy its warning of sorrow in the streets. It makes the night full of metaphors. Do angels actually cry when one has fallen? Is John right to wash his hands of him?

Sherlock knows he can’t allow letting John slip away from his hands so easily. He lifts his head, meeting John’s eyes, pleading him wordlessly to see clearly just for one last time. He allows the floods of feelings to well up, and let John see the truth. He used to be the one person who could see the good in him, who could see the fragile human heart he had.  
He doesn’t move a limb, his frame stays frozen, but he holds John’s gaze trying to move heaven with his eyes. "John, I-" _will do anything you ask from me._

John doesn’t allow him to finish. "I said no, Sherlock. No. There is nothing left to talk about. You need to go." 

For a moment, desperation disregards logic. Sherlock takes a step toward John, ignoring the danger in John’s eyes. “Please.” It slips past his lips like a prayer.  
“Leave me be,” John says in a calm, low voice but the unspoken threat is clear and bright in his eyes. “I don’t want this to end with one of us in the hospital.”  
John reaches for the door handle, but the image of his broken friend bleeding on the pavement makes him hesitate in his movement. It still makes him shiver with fear, but the realisation that Sherlock stood by when he broke and begged for his return, hardens his heart to him now.  
The image of the man, whether he is standing on his door step or lying on the blood-soaked pavement, will never leave his retina. 

He closes the door and locks him out. He takes a deep breath as he looks through the peep-hole, unable to breathe out.  
He looks at the surreal image of Sherlock standing with huge, horror-filled eyes. His shoulders lower and it seems like a lifetime before the detective shuffles away as if he has lost his ethereal grace.

Inside the poorly decorated flat John leans against the door. His knees give way. He hits the ground hard, his back slamming into the door hard enough to cause bruises. He pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms tightly around them. He waits until he can’t hear the dragging footsteps outside any more and when the eerie silence has returned, he bows his head. Sobs escape his throat; with difficulty he holds the whimpers back. In the protection of his own flat John doesn’t have to fool anybody.  
Sherlock Holmes is alive, but never had he been more dead to John than now. It hurts, but John knows he has made the right decision. He would never have to be hurt like this ever again. 

Sherlock is a hurricane; destroying everything he encounters in his path.  
Sherlock is the sun; you come too close and you will burn.  
Sherlock is the sea: invitingly refreshing, but its treacherous, down-pulling undercurrents are pulling constantly.

If Sherlock was all those things to the people around him, how would he be to himself? John plays the scene again, watches on like an outsider. Sees the holding of his frame, sees the pleading, but finds himself unable to think of it as being his fault. He knows he should feel it is his fault.  
Sherlock never gives up that easily. Surely he must have deduced something John doesn’t know about himself yet?  
John almost expects Sherlock to knock on the door and demand entrance, pouring out his deductions, persuading John to come home with him and stop acting like such an idiot. He would have succeeded.  
But Sherlock is really gone now, and he doesn’t return. Why should he?  
In the silence of his own flat, thoughts attack John’s bewildered mind from all sides. He has always been Sherlock’s beacon, Sherlock’s rock. Who would be Sherlock’s rock now? Would tonight be a danger night? Would every night be a danger night? Who would mess up Sherlock’s sock index to get rid of all the drugs there?  
To be honest, it is rather stupid. Sherlock has been on his own for over two years. If he wanted to do drugs, he would have done it. Just returning to John doesn’t mean he should take care of Sherlock.  
Does it?  
Less than three years ago, John had been willing to dedicate his life fully to Sherlock, willing to put everything aside for him. John doesn’t understand why that had changed. Is he really that fallible? Was being changeable his weakness too?  
It seems surreal. Sherlock has performed a miracle. One last miracle, but was it for him? John shakes his head to the emptiness of his flat. Sherlock was not dead. Sherlock is alive. And John doesn’t know whether to laugh, or cry. But because the skies are already crying, John does the only thing that is left for him to do. He chuckles. Sherlock is alive.

…

In the rain outside, Sherlock slowly walks back the way he came, leaving his friend and his past behind. Sherlock knows he deserves this. It has been seven weeks since he had ‘returned from the dead’, a phrase his brother Mycroft is fond of using. It is a phrase too dramatic for Sherlock's taste. He has not returned from the dead; John has not allowed him to be part of the living again. He has handed his heart over to John, who threw it away in the bin on top of crumpled and smeared case-files and left-over dinner, to be covered by left-over breakfast. He is still dead, and now it is permanent.  
He had shown himself to John, Lestrade, Molly and everyone else the first moment he safely could. The press had turned again – they always did – and had welcomed the not-dead detective with open arms and enthusiastic articles. Sherlock's records had been cleared by Lestrade and Mycroft, and the ‘Believe-In-Sherlock’-graffiti-movement had taken on the fashionable cult of public opinion, handing him a fan base prior to his return.  
He was re-established in his former glory. He has more cases than ever, but Baker Street is not the same without the tea-drinking blogger.  
Silently, pale, matter-of-factly, John had understood. Sherlock could easily remember how his best – only– friend had looked: shivering, thin and pale, black bags under his eyes and a stronger limp than ever in his right leg.  
John had understood. But he doesn’t understand now. Or perhaps he does, and is he just playing the game how Moriarty wanted him to. The consulting spider must have convinced John to play. This might very well be the real fall. The real burning. 

How pleased daddy must be.

...

To Be Continued


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

Sherlock walks down the street, paying no attention to the cold rain that soaks his skin and bones, ignoring the coldness that creeps through his body.

He slowly and heavy-limbed climbs the stairs to the train platform and walks to the small office. He places one of the two tickets on the till in front of the girl who sits there.  
“How can I help you?” she says in a thick Welsh accent, not looking at the man in front of her.

“I would like to get a refund for this ticket. It won’t be used.” 

The girl sighs. Those kinds of things take an awful lot of paperwork. 

When it’s done, Sherlock clutches the 42 pounds in his right hand as he walks down the platform. He doesn’t want to sit in the train for over two hours on his own. But he has to.   
It is the second time in seven weeks that Sherlock had to ask for a refund for his train ticket. The first time he had just gone to John, thinking everything would be alright. It turned out it wasn’t.

Sherlock closes his eyes as he sits down on a bench beside an elder lady, waiting for his train to arrive to bring him back to London. 

He had knocked on the door, seven weeks ago. John opened the door, and had just stared at Sherlock.

“So,” he had said. “Not dead then, I take it.” He didn’t make it sound like a question.

Sherlock could only nod and followed his friend to the living room of the small Cardiff flat he shared with some obscure fellow soldier he had met in Afghanistan.

Sherlock’s eyes flew all across the room, deducing, analysing. Photo’s, papers, chairs. 

“Sam isn’t in,” John said, leaning against the counter in his kitchen. “He had work to do. We do have to pay the rent every month, of course.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “Is it hard to pay the rent?” he asked. Perhaps he could help. Or perhaps John would love to come back to the much more comfortable and luxurious Baker Street.  
“No.” John shook his head. “We can manage perfectly well.”

They walked over to the living room, seven weeks ago. Sherlock sat on the worn sofa, John sank down on a stool; he doesn’t have many chairs. John made tea; exactly the way Sherlock liked it. John was silent, neither of them was able to think of anything to say, and suddenly Sherlock couldn't contain it any more. "I love you, John Hamish Watson," he softly said, slowly, like he tasted the words. Bitter.

John hadn’t responded, but his face paled. He continued sipping from his tea, his gaze anywhere but on Sherlock.

"I love you, and I jumped for you," Sherlock mumbled, suddenly embarrassed by what he had said. Finding it too late to back away now, too late to fight the words that spilled from behind his lips, he looked at the floor. One continuous blur of words, feelings and all the oh-so resented sentiment wanted to follow the words he had said so badly, he wanted to explain them, but something blocked the way. 

John grimaced at Sherlock’s declaration that hung dead-still in the air. “Jump for my love, eh?”

Sherlock didn’t understand the reference. “What do you mean?” he asked, bewildered.  
“It’s a song by The Pointer Sisters from the mid eighties. ‘If you want more, if you want more more more, then sis, jump, for my love!’, it’s a quite famous song.” John sighed, stirring his tea. “It’s on YouTube, just in case you’d…”

Sherlock’s hands firmly clasped the mug, the cooled content, brown with swirls of white, suddenly looked very interesting and finally the words could come out.   
"Moriarty had a sniper aimed at you, and all I could think about is; ‘how can I save John?’ I couldn’t let you die, I refused to let any harm come to you. You had to watch me die, that was the only way they could believe I was dead, it was the only way you would be utterly and completely safe. I was so alone all those years and I missed you so much, I wanted to come back so many times but Mycroft didn't let me. Now all is finished, and we can go back to where we were and how we are." 

Sherlock's hope-filled, begging grey-blue orbs had been fixed on John and suddenly the blogger inhaled sharply; like he had been holding his breath for too long, which he probably had.   
After all this time it was quite ironic, really. Sherlock Holmes never begged for anything in his life. John reduced him to this, and Sherlock was more than willing to stoop for his – well, whatever you call someone who means that much. John could cut him down by just using the right words. He knew what he wanted to say. He had the power, but the reduced state of the detective tugged his heart.

"We can't, Sherlock," John whispered, breaking Sherlock’s train of thought, still avoiding Sherlock's gaze. More firmly, like he had gathered courage, he continued, using his perfectly steady doctor’s hand to make the incision to section off the veins of hope. 

"We can't go back to that, Sherlock. You have been dead for over two years and now you say you love me. You, of all people.” John laughed scornfully. “Do you even know what love is?”   
His blue eyes were lighter than ever. “Love isn’t about hurting friends. Love is about trust, confidence and sharing, Sherlock. Not about jumping for my sake, not about sacrificing yourself so I will live.”

John bowed his head again, staring deep in his empty mug. Some brown flecks were all that was left. “I don't know what trick this is, but I'm not going to be your forgiving pet any longer."   
“You believe I am unable to love? Never crossed your mind that I am more than a machine? I always miss something, don’t I, John? In case you were looking for the right word… Freak might work well in this case.”

“I never called you—”

“Did you not? I missed it, you see. I was foolish enough to imagine you always forgave me because you cared. You acted so offended when they said that to me, but secretly you agreed with them. Deep down, you didn’t see me any more than they did. I am just a freak with no heart to wound. It is an easy thing to say, isn’t it? Think, John. You were never my pet. Those are his words, not mine.” Sherlock focused on John, looking again at the empty eyes, dark and distant. 

John lifted his head and shook it, smiling in curious annoyance. “I was your pet, your keeper, your handler. I was alone and depended on you and you always let me down. You lied to me and used me and then discarded me every single time a new shiny thing caught your eye.”

“No. It is impossible for you to be my pet, when in fact you are, right this minute, proving who your master is. Jim would have been so proud of you right now. Doing the thing even his lover could not. Go ahead. Burn me, John. Finish it for him. Make me pay for the crime of doing exactly what you threw at me. Friends protect people.”

John sighed. “I hate you for torturing me. That’s what you did. You might as well have killed me too. You left me alone, all this time you left me without as much as a word and only a cold grave stone to keep me company. All those years I had nobody. You were the only one who made the choices in this matter. You should have let me choose. I would have done anything for you, but you left me to whatever pain your loss would bring. You didn’t do me any favours. I will never be the same. We will never be the same, and you did that. You made a fool of me and now that you have finished with all the fun, you are bored and you show up wanting me to entertain you. Not this time.”

“I did all you ask of me. I thought it would matter, because even this second, I don’t regret anything I did, because you are still alive. It was your life I cared about. Mine didn’t matter. It probably never did. Shall we deduce who the real fool is? I seem to be the one reaching out and begging for my life. Begging for any chance, only to discover that I shouldn’t have bothered.”   
John lifted his head to look at his friend. His blue eyes weren’t kind and open now. He has donned his harness and had activated the battle mode, not letting his friend in any more. His friend who had been dead and is so alive now simply wasn't capable of the love John had been yearning for, for so long. John knew he had to go on, and moving on meant staying away from Sherlock Holmes, the man who knew nothing of love except for the chemistry. 

Two years of utter loneliness had effusively shown that the great Sherlock Holmes, the man beneath the hat, was not capable of love. 

He was so good at acting; he would have won a BAFTA if only consulting detectives could be nominated. He had seen it before, Sherlock knew how to get inside somebody and make them do what he wants. He can play people like a doll on strings. His words hurt, but they are meaningless. They are just another part of his manipulative personality, and John just promised himself he would not fall for that again. He had just promised himself no longer to be a lab rat to be experimented on again.

John had put up with so many whims of the man, but it was time he drew the line. 

Enough was enough. He didn't plan to drown. He didn't plan to burn.

John got to his feet, his stool scooting back with a groan. “We have said all there is to say. I want you to go.” He walked towards the door and motioned the tall man out. "Leave, Sherlock."   
Sherlock stood as if in slow motion, obeying without saying anything. Stepping closer to John, he lowered his head, his eyes flickering from John's slightly parted lips to his eyes and back. John knew what was coming, and pushed him away, with gentle control and rough determination.

"I mean it, Sherlock. I don't want this. I suppose there was a time when you could have made me the happiest man on earth by saying and doing all this, but that time has passed. We should both move on. The times that I drop everything I have just to be on your side are over." The unspoken, “and it is entirely your fault, mister brilliant” lingered in the air. 

All Sherlock could do was do as he was told, but he didn’t want to leave without one last stand. “If you want me to leave, I will. If you ever change your mind, John, I will do anything for you. Anything at all.”

“I don’t think I will. There is just nothing left to do, Sherlock,” John said. He leaned against the door, waiting for Sherlock to walk through. His arms were crossed defensively, his eyes looking out of the door, squinting against the bright sun light.

Sherlock walked through, but turned before he left. “I just want you to be the happiest person on the earth, John. I want you to know that. The happiest man, even if you never talk to me again.”

“No more lies. I don’t need them any more.” 

“John, I will be back in seven weeks. Please, think it through. Don’t push me away.” Sherlock left in further silence, the question – the plea – running in loops in his eyes.

John closed the door. Sherlock would try again in seven weeks. In vain, it would all be in vain. He would not allow Sherlock back into the flat, but leave him begging on the pavement. 

The shrill sound of an approaching train startles Sherlock, ripping him roughly from his mind palace. He blinks twice. He is no longer in John’s company. He is alone. 

The elder lady smiles at the handsome man beside her on the bench and pats his arm soothingly. “I think you need some sleep, young man. You look tired.”  
…  
Two and a half hours later, the train arrives at King’s Cross. Sherlock leaves the train and walks outside. The rain has stopped. 

He hails a taxi and gives the cabbie his address. Baker Street; his haven. He enters the small hallway and quickly disappears upstairs. He had promised Mrs. Hudson that John would come home with him. He doesn’t want to explain why he has returned alone. 

He enters his own living room, and immediately his phone rings.

He fumbles with the phone before answering. “Hello Mycroft.”

“Hello Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, despite himself. “What is it, Mycroft?”

“John isn’t there, is he?”

Sherlock closes his eyes. His brother’s words make him face the full truth. “No, he is not.”

It is silent on the other end of the line. Then, “I am so sorry, Sherlock.”

“Yeah, me too. At least he is alive, and safe.” Sherlock breaks off the connection and slumps down in his chair. Alone. Alone. He is all alone. It’s what protects him, isn’t it?

...

To Be Continued


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3.  
Sherlock returns to helping the Yard, picking up his work where he had left it and yet, even now, it feels hollow. Although he pesters Anderson and Donovan, annoys Lestrade and irritates his brother, solves the most ingenious crimes and bathes in the momentary satisfaction it brings him, solving crimes without John doesn’t feel normal.  
Once, just once, during the two years, he was allowed by Mycroft to come back to London. He had spent that week in following John everywhere he went. He watched John going to work, to Sarah, to Molly, to Lestrade, to the pub. He followed him when John went to Tesco’s to do the shopping.   
He always took care to stay out of sight, hiding around corners of tall, grey buildings and walking in the shadows, his cheekbones and mouth hidden by a smelly scarf he had bought somewhere in France. He was mesmerised by the way John shopped so carefully. John read labels, compared prices and sniffed fruit. It is remarkable how John always seems to smell the difference between the perfect pear and a pear that would be tasteless. It was painful to see John picking up milk Sherlock would never drink.  
It was nostalgic.  
Sherlock followed John as he limped his way home. He saw John as he walked past shop windows and stared at the image he saw there. John always carried the heavy bags with his left hand to spare his injured shoulder, but both his shoulders were lowered.  
Sherlock more often than not extended his hand, knowing where to press between the sore shoulder blades to ease the pain. He knew what he had to say to make the empty look in John’s eyes disappear. He knew how he would have to smile at John to make the sad corners of John’s mouth curl up.  
It was all the information he needed. He deduced it. He analysed it. He loved John. He imagined how it could be, if only…  
He had deduced it all with one of his scrutinising looks. He accepted it greedily. He loves the brave soldier. He loves the warm, loyal and human doctor. He loves the over-dramatic and adoring blogger. He loves the admiring looks. He loves the outbursts of anger when he had done something wrong again. He loves the laughing and the panting when returning at the flat after an invigorating chase.   
He loves John.   
He had to return to god-knows-where the following day. He went wherever Mycroft sent him, wherever Moriarty’s web pulled him. Before the train left the platform, the pain already tugged at his brains. The full ache, slightly soothed by John’s proximity, returned in its stinging entirety the moment he turned his back.   
It was when he stared out of the window, seeing the landscape glide away underneath the thundering wheels of the train, that he finally realised how it could be, and it was when he boarded the small fisher boat that he swore to kill the ghost of Moriarty and profess his love to John. It was a brilliant plan, and it kept him going as long as he needed.  
It all worked out just fine. He crushed Moriarty's web and he returned home. He entered the dark, empty and cold flat, instead of the warm place he called home a little more than two years ago. He had everything, yet he missed everything, and he planned to get that one thing too.   
In the darkness of 221B, Sherlock covers his eyes with his hands, bent over he leans heavily with his elbows on his knees. He has been so stupid.   
This morning he had left so hopeful. He promised John seven weeks. He bought two tickets. The seven weeks of peace he had granted John are over. Today, his heart beat with useless whimsical sentiment. He would be allowed into John’s life again today. John would be pleased with him. He has proven himself. He did all that John asked. He caught himself in a shop window, a big grin on his face, his old confident swagger had made a reappearance today, making his coat billow and swing.   
Seven weeks of knowing John was out there somewhere but not here with him, has been too long. Sherlock knew the basics of tea making, but John must have some sort of magic touch, because all Sherlock’s attempts at tea were somehow horrible.   
Ah, today he would be able to drink some real tea, with John, here. At Baker Street. Telling John he loved him, and beg him to return to London was the hardest thing he had ever done. Surely, the jumping was bad, but he had always known that he would return.   
Some small voice from the cellar of his mind palace whispered back the words John had said to him seven weeks ago, but Sherlock shut the doors quickly. John was his friend, his only friend. John was very angry those seven weeks ago, and, Sherlock had to admit, he had expected it. John was a soldier after all, and soldiers got angry. Surely John would understand why it had to be done?   
John wasn’t stupid, after all. John was clever and kind. John understood that Sherlock cared, deep down Sherlock did care, surely John could see. What would he write on his blog? How would the people respond? John was his now and everyone was allowed to see. Sherlock’s heart swelled with pride. John, his. At least, that was what he thought this morning as he boarded the train.   
All his efforts turn out to be wasted. Nothing changes, except that now he knew John would never be his. And he didn’t even get tea. He didn’t even get to touch John.  
Sherlock sits in his chair and stares at his violin, at the skull. Slowly he lifts himself from his chair, bumps his toe into the chair opposite him, the chair that won’t ever be used again. Sherlock doesn’t curse.   
He just keeps walking, until he reaches the mantelpiece with the skull. “Well, my… friend,” he sighs, fingering the hard, unyielding bone. “I think it’s just you and me again.”   
He lifts the skull and takes a closer look. If he thinks really hard, he can imagine the soft lips that hang there, blue kind eyes filling the empty hollows that used to be eyes, tan skin that stretches over the vast sports of white. One blink with his eyes and the image vaporizes in the air. He carefully places it back to its old spot. “Just you and me again,” he whispers.  
…  
John stands up from the cold floor and wanders to his kitchen. Thoughtlessly he makes tea and goes to bed. The next morning, he wakes up feeling he should feel something, but all he feels is blissful numbness.  
He goes to his nice, quiet job at the clinic where he has nice colleagues and friends to go to the pub with. Nothing on his outer surface refers to the past he has lying behind him.   
He puts his life with the famous Sherlock Holmes behind closed doors like memories of a foreign country he doesn’t want to go to any more. None of his new friends knows about his past or suspects anything about his habit of cutting out every news report and newspaper picture of a tall and handsome detective with sad grey-green eyes and a dark mop of wild curly hair and placing them in a cardboard box under his bed.  
…  
Sherlock sits in his chair as the night passes and the sun sets. He goes over the conversations from the past over and over again, recalling how John’s eyes would light up and how his lips would curl when he smiles. He imagines John’s voice, the voice that sounded so cold and distant just today. In his memory, that voice is not cold or distant. In his memory John’s voice is warm and tender, it is friendly and joking, telling him it’s ‘a bit not good’ and ‘Brilliant!’.  
His phone rings and reluctantly Sherlock fishes it from his pockets. He prefers to text, but he is too tired to tell Lestrade that. It’s quite a miracle how Lestrade fails to see that Sherlock hates calling. He answers anyway.  
“Sherlock, we have a triple murder, I am sure you will like it. Shall I text you the address?”  
…  
John knows his friend so very well and he sees –he really sees– the emptiness in those beautiful ice-eyes, printed in the daily papers. He notices the perfect cupid-bow, the full lips that never form any real, genuine smile any more, and he knows it is all because of him. But the two years and a little had made him inflexible and bitter, and he just likes it that way. How did Sherlock phrase it? ‘Alone is what I have, alone protects me’? Well, John has alone. And he has bitter, and the bitterness protects him.   
No one breaks through the impenetrable wall John built around his grim heart, and deep inside John knows that was mainly the case because no one really tried. No one really cares. It isn’t as if John wants anyone to try; caring was not an advantage after all. He goes to the pub with his friends and has fun, but they have just as much fun without him.  
John's heart is still broken, shattered in tiny pieces on pavement. Not pavement in front of a hospital, but simply on the small patch of stones right before his doorstep. A doctor can make everything right, but how can you patch up a broken heart when it’s yours?  
On the outside, John pretends to be the kind doctor with bright blue eyes and sharp observations and the gentle hands, but on the inside John is alone. His flat is but a poor copy of Baker Street. Now and then, he feels the urgent need to pull his cardboard box from underneath his bed and lifts the lid off it.   
He carefully flicks through the pictures and newspaper reports about the amazing detective, and he feels something close to regret. His fingers ghost over Sherlock’s face and cheekbones, the black ink hardly does them justice. He touches the printed dark curls, and it is never close enough. Would they feel as silky as they look?  
Sometimes it gets too much, and John rams the lid back and shoves it under the bed.   
His new friends don’t see past the mask, and his old friends belong to the past. He doesn’t want to be found. Hiding works just fine.   
The only man who really knows him lives in a small flat in the middle of London on quite a prime spot.  
…  
Sherlock has a bit more difficulty adjusting to his new life. He lives his life and solves his cases, but both Mycroft and Lestrade feels Sherlock's behaviour misses the passion and excitement a new case had always brought. Sure enough, Sherlock still solves them in no-time, as accurate as he had always had, but his heart isn’t in it anymore.  
His heart is in an insignificant flat just outside Cardiff.   
In his grimmer periods, Sherlock realises Moriarty, although dead, has accomplished exactly what he wanted.  
Now and then, Sherlock goes back to Bart’s rooftop, just to sit there and hum the notes of ‘Stayin’ alive’ softly. Jim was right. Staying alive is boring, it’s just staying. He fumbles with the Browning in his hands; its appeal is so strong.   
…  
Four days after Sherlock’s final departure from John’s flat, John opens the door to meet a nervous Molly.  
He smiles at her and lets her in. She hands him her coat, but declines his tea.   
“How are you, Molly?” John asks.  
“I am, erm, fine,” she answers. “How are you?”  
John shrugs, “See for yourself. I have a nice flat and a nice job, I’m fine.”  
Molly bites her lip. “You don’t look fine!” she blurts.  
John grimaces. “Tired, I just had a long shift.”  
Molly seems to ignore his answer, as she continues, “Sherlock looks rubbish too.”  
John closes his eyes to hide the anger that wells up by hearing that name. “Why did you bring him up?”  
“You were his friend, his only friend and now he has no one any more. I know he has Lestrade and me, but he needs you, John. He is getting worse. He told me he asked you to return but you refused. That is, erm, your good right, of course, but… Did you think this through?”  
John lifts an eyebrow at Molly. “I did. Why does this concern you so much?”  
She coughs nervously and wriggles in her chair, trying to get comfortable.  
John’s eyes widen. “Oh god… You didn’t…”  
Molly lifts her eyes to John’s and nods curtly. “He needed help with faking his… jump. And I gave him that help.”  
John swallows. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but not a single word comes out.  
“I am sorry, John, he didn’t want me to tell you,” Molly whispers, soft and sad. “Moriarty wanted to kill him, or Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and-”  
“Me,” John interrupts. “Yes, he told me. Well,” he stands and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I think you’d better leave, Molls.”  
Molly stands too and walks over to John until she stands before him. “He had it all planned out, John. Everything, the plan, the fall, the truck, the people around him, the other body. He came to me that day and explained it all to me, and I had to tell him he had to do it. He didn’t want to, because of you. When I told him that you could die if he didn’t jump, he looked at me with those light eyes, and he nodded. It was all for you, John. You have to go back to him.”  
John shakes his head. “No, Molly.”  
He opens the door for her, and when she steps outside and pulls her coat flush around her, he says softly, “but thank you for helping him. At least he is alive.”  
Molly looks at him with large eyes, but John closes the door and walks back inside.  
…  
When he is alone, Mycroft often picks up his mobile phone and enters a number. He stares at the small devise in his hands, knowing that all he has to do is press the call button. He never does. He knows John made his decision, and the soldier’s decision won’t be altered by an outward force. Especially not by a government who caused all of this. After all, John believes Mycroft sold his brother out.   
…  
Lestrade watches Sherlock as he is deducing and solving crimes, and thinks that everything is almost, almost, back the way it was. Except it is not. Sherlock treats him normally. He hasn’t said a word about Greg’s distrust him, but the enthusiasm has left.  
Sometimes, Lestrade wants to ask what happened between Sherlock and John, but when he sees the way the detective holds himself, and how he responds to all the people around him, he swallows all the questions he wanted to ask. It must have been heartbreaking.  
…  
Both Mycroft and Lestrade are relieved when Sherlock announces he can’t come to a crime scene, one afternoon in the autumn. He proudly tells them he has found another potential flatmate, who is willing to endure the violin, deductions and experiments.   
They are so grateful he has moved on, apparently, but their worries come back in full force when they meet Sherlock’s new flatmate. 

...  
To Be Continued


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Matthew Morstan is a kind man, to be sure, and he is full of admiration for the tall detective; exactly what Sherlock needs. He is shorter than Sherlock, has sandy-blonde hair and almost always wears jumpers. Matthew’s eyes are the brownest brown, almost bordering on black.

Mycroft and Lestrade look on from a distance, always making sure Sherlock has cases to solve and no drugs to use. Sherlock never speaks to the two men, or Mrs. Hudson or Molly for that matter, about important things. His business booms and life goes on. He is still rude and still he doesn’t care about feelings of others. His behaviour still is a bit not good.

He is still alone.

Shortly after Matthew moves in to Baker Street, pictures of the two of them begin to appear more regularly in the newspapers in London, and soon Sherlock Holmes’s fame seeps out of London, and not much later out of England too, finding their ways into Cardiff and forcing themselves into the small flat of Doctor John Watson. Sherlock Holmes consults with governments all over the world, aided by his faithful friend Matthew Morstan, a confirmed bachelor.

John's carefully built wall shakes on its founding when he sees the new 'friend' of the detective, but he shakes his head, cuts the article out and ignores the throb of pain somewhere deep buried.

With an almost daily regularity, Sherlock and Matthew's pictures appear in the papers, full of praise for the clever man, and of course, with the cheeky side-remarks of a possible relationship. John never gives it much notice, until one day, the newspapers are filled with pictures of Sherlock and The Other, and close ups revealing the two of them wearing matching rings. John takes the day off from the clinic, buys a bottle of single malt highland scotch, goes home to his flat and spends the next two days cabbaged. The hang-over lasts four days more.

Almost six months later, when he comes home after a mind-numbing shift at the clinic, he almost steps on top of a cream-coloured envelope lying on his doormat. He rips it open with his index finger and reads the text with dry eyes.

_Matthew and Sherlock request the honour of your presence as they celebrate a joyful future of love. Reception to follow immediately after ceremony._

It is followed by a date and place. It wasn’t Sherlock who’d sent the letter. 

John’s heart drops and his eyes have to blink away tears. This is what he said he wanted. He tries to tell himself that he is happy for Sherlock. He knows it isn’t his place to admit any regret now. He knows he can’t go to the ceremony without taking a chance of admitting it out loud. He bites his lips and tosses the invitation onto his desk. He orders a nice set of sealed food containers and pays the fee for gift wrap. He has them sign the card ‘Best wishes, JW’. He grins, wondering if Sherlock would get the joke. He imagines Matthew will be pleased that Sherlock has something nice to organise the body parts in the fridge. 

The days fly by. One of the many sent invitations rests on a table in a small flat just outside Cardiff, among dirty plates and half-drunken, cooled cups of tea. John takes vacation, promising himself he will go. When the day arrives, John spends the days in his dark kitchen with the windows shut and the curtains drawn, thinking, drinking and cleaning his gun. The card rests on the table, close to John. He is sure he can smell a whiff of Sherlock on the paper.  
…  
Sherlock grows restless; Matthew cheerfully blames the run-away itch. At night, when Matthew’s breathing has slowed to a sleepy pace and the man has drifted off to sleep after a bout of sexual intercourse, Sherlock stares at the ceiling, questioning his decisions. Matthew is not John, he knows that, but Matthew brings him warmth in cold and lonely nights. Matthew is here, Matthew wants to be his. He turns to face his fiancé and curls around the warm body. Consulting Detectives can’t be choosers.

The days slide by slowly, until finally the day arrives.

Matthew is excited and happy because he has such a wonderful man to live with and to share adventures with. 

Sherlock is mainly looking out for a soldier with a limp, and places a slice of jam-filled cake aside for him. Matthew mocks him in a friendly manner, but it stings Sherlock nevertheless. 

Their wedding-day is celebrated superbly. Many of the clients Sherlock has helped once are there, and they all ask, joking, where that friendly doctor has run off to. Sherlock can’t answer their questions and is almost grateful for Matthew to drag him to the dance floor to start the night with a sensational tango they have been practising for weeks. They harvest neverending applause and they bow in unison. Their hands are entwined and they wear matching smiles on their faces. One is real, the other is a carefully chosen and applied mask.  
At the end of the day when all the guests have left, a waitress with tired feet picks up a lonely plate with a leftover slice of cake and throws it in the bin. There is no one to care, no one to notice. After all, it isn’t the only piece of cake left. Wedding cakes are always too large, especially when Mycroft orders it. That small plate, hidden behind a bouquet of now withered flowers is of significance to one person only.  
…  
That day, after his week’s vacation, John returns to the clinic to work again, but he mixes up several medicines for his patients until Hank, his boss, decides to send him home.   
“You look horrible, John,” Hank says. “You look really miserable. Go home, take some painkillers and go to bed. I’ll see you in tomorrow if you feel better.” Then he runs away to another patient. It is a busy day. It is almost a normal day. Almost.

John walks outside and drags himself back to the flat. He knows exactly why he is so tired and restless, especially when he notices the card lying under a pile of paperwork John still has to take care of. He picks up the heavy card and flips it through his fingers, fingering the letters there. 

_Sherlock._

He should have gone. Now there really can’t be a reason to ever see him again.

Angry at himself for feeling how he feels, the doctor with the sore feet throws the exquisitely engraved card in the bin, and he is the only who cares. It isn’t the only thing John throws away in the bin, because his flat needs a good bout of cleaning. He slams the lid on the bin and sits down at the table. He leans his head in his hands and closes his eyes. He rubs his face tiredly and weeps. He weeps for his own stupidity, for not being able to make it right. But above all, he weeps for the chances he let slide away. 

He indeed takes some painkillers, but it isn’t enough to chase away the nightmares that night. Everything passes his eyes that night. It all starts with the war, the heat, the bombing and the shouting, the shooting and the dying, and Doctor John Watson is unable to help. Sherlock passes his retina, in broken form, lying dead on the pavement, surrounded by his deep-red flowing blood. Sherlock smiles, clad in a tight-fitting tuxedo and his dark curls are combed neatly aside. He smiles and says, “I do,” with the happiest grin John has ever seen on his face, but it’s not meant for him. When he wakes up he breathes heavily and drags himself to the kitchen. He lifts up his gun from the table and cocks the safety pal back. He brushes the steel and smiles. He stands there until his feet and hands are cold. He is too proud to give in this easily. He must go to the hospital to work. 

…

Matthew stucks the key in the key-hole of the battered door that leads to 221B. He turns around to face his gorgeous newly-wed husband. He grabs Sherlock’s hand and smiles fondly. “Come upstairs with me.”

Sherlock nods. He follows Matthew upstairs and inhales sharply when Matthew slams his back in the door. Lips attack his and Sherlock’s body responds. 

“I want you. May I take you?” Matthew pants heavily, but he does not wait for an answer. He scoops Sherlock up in his arms and carries him, bridal style, to the nearest bedroom. He drops him gently on the cold bed and looms over his husband whose silver eyes shine in the dark. 

“This will be special, Sherlock Morstan-Holmes,” he whispers proudly. Tuxedos are easily taken care of.

He takes all he can that night; Sherlock’s body truly belongs to him now. It is indeed different to all the other times their bodies became one. This time, it is permanent.

…  
The next day, pictures from the wedding appear in the papers, filled with admiration for the handsome couple and the beautiful wedding cake with the unusual filling of strawberry jam. The sensational dance is reviewed in close detail, describing the placing of the hands, the footwork, the seduction that lingered in the air. It is joined by a photograph of Sherlock who hangs in Matthew’s tight grip, his tousled curls almost toucing the floor, his left leg wrapped around his husband’s waist. 

John dutifully cuts them all out and places them gently in the box, on top of the other pictures. 

Sherlock’s face continues to be printed in the papers regularly, and his name is a top hit on the internet. 

Matthew has even started a blog. John is one of his followers, under the perfect cover of a self-chosen nickname, John Hope. Matthew could be fooled by that, but somehow John hopes Sherlock sees through it. If he hasn’t deleted their first case together, that is. 

_Welcome to London._ Would Sherlock remember?   
…

Three years later, several headlines in the papers draw John’s attention. 

TROUBLE IN PARADISE FOR CONSULTING DETECTIVE?  
HUSBAND CHEATS ON BOFFIN HOLMES  
HOLMES FOOLED BY OWN HUSBAND  
MATTHEW MORSTAN CONFIRMED BACHELOR AGAIN! BOYS, GRAB THAT CHANCE! 

Matthew turns out to have participated in an affair with some forensic expert, who is not named in the papers or in any speech made by Sherlock.

Sherlock makes a statement in the newspapers shortly afterwards. He says he will leave London for a period with length unknown to help a government across the borders.

John suspects Mycroft arranged that at such a short notice. John watches all the news flashes and even searches the internet and YouTube to find more information. Sherlock looks the same in all the photographs. His hair is still dark and curly. His cheekbones are less sharp than before, which John knows is because of Matthew who probably fed the detective up. Which is what boyfriends do, don’t they? 

Sherlock looks good, except for his eyes. Sherlock’s eyes are dulled and lifeless, the only thing that goes unnoticed by the press who only see the fooled consulting detective who acts like a robot.

When the next case comes along in the newspapers, it is solved by Sherlock Holmes, the world’s loneliest consulting detective. In the post-case excitement flooding the papers, Sherlock is photographed alone. His side looks empty without a side-kick. His eyes look empty without the enjoyment and arrogance about solving the case.

John reads all the information within his grasp. He reads the last posts on Matthew’s blog and opens the box under his bed to look through. He spends the days in front of his empty bed, the box in front of him and the pictures fading, blurring and yellowing in his hands. After two days, John stands, his joints are stiff and painful. He opens his closet and takes out some clothes that hang at the back. He shaves and applies the fragrance he finds at the bottom of the cardboard box. He scoops up his small bag from the floor and walks towards his front door. He takes the key from its hook by the door and takes a deep breath. What he is going to do may be the stupidest thing he has ever done. 

He steps outside and shuts the door. It's a small walk to the train station and his bag isn't heavy.

...  
To Be Continued


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

London has not changed very much. It is still buzzing and alive, and John fidgets restlessly in the back of the cab. He waited eight years for this moment; it has been six years since he has last seen Sherlock. Suddenly the last thirty minutes seem too much.

The cab reaches Baker Street. John knocks, suddenly hesitantly, and Mrs. Hudson opens the door. She looks even more fragile than before but is still as loving and caring as eight years ago.  
She leads him upstairs, unexplained tears –not of sadness but of hope, John observes– in her eyes. The stairs are still bare and worn, no carpet covers the steps, and the fifth step from the top still has the crack in it. The wall paper still carries the scratch marks from Mrs. Hudson's abduction by the American, now over eight years ago. _Eight years._

Life appears to have never moved at all since the fatal day eight years ago when John enters the flat and sees everything is still the same. Skull, hunting knife, the two chairs, Cluedo, Sherlock's coat, the smiley face with the bullets on the wall. John stretches his hand towards the coat on the peg on the door and softly fingers it, bringing the fabric towards his nose as he inhales the expensive cologne his friend always uses.

His heart misses a beat when Sherlock comes walking in from the kitchen and freezes in mid-movement as his gaze lands on John.

John sees the widened pupils in his former flat mate's grey eyes and notices the trembling in the long limbs. Suddenly John understands the tears in Mrs. Hudson's eyes; he knows the symptoms.

"How long?" John asks breathlessly.

"Ever since," Sherlock replies curtly, his voice hoarse from weeks, probably months of disuse.

"How much?" John enquires softly.

"Never enough." Sherlock laughs humourlessly and lowers his sleeves so they cover his pale arms. His movement is measured, controlled, so like the man he once was but so unlike the man he now is.

The small movement takes away John’s breath. 

Sherlock does not seem to notice. “How are you, John? Why are you here? Is something wrong?” he asks, a tinge of worry trickling out through his voice.

John shrugs. “I think I’d better ask you.”

Sherlock nods vaguely and steps closer, hesitantly. “You look… well,” he says, his eyes wandering over John’s body, seemingly aimless.

John grimaces. “I really do not.” He wonders what those eyes are really deducing about him.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow but he doesn’t say anything. He invites John to sit down with a gesture of his slender hand.

John complies and makes a broad gesture around the room. “Didn’t change a bit, since… well.”

“I couldn’t bear to change it.”

“Didn’t he… your… Didn’t he mind?”

Sherlock does not answer, but just stares at John as if reassuring himself he is real. His eyes dart up and down over John’s body, noticing the cashmere black jumper he had once bought his friend for Christmas. 

“I heard about what happened,” John says suddenly, “Between you and him, I mean. I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” 

“Do you have any photos?” John asks. “I mean, there aren’t any on the walls…”

“Matthew took them. I have no need for such sentiment.”

Sherlock shrugs again and offers to make tea. 

“You make tea?” John asks, as he raises his eyebrow skeptically.

“Matthew taught me,” he grimaces. From his former behaviour – aloof, eccentric – nothing remained. “Not that I am any good… it doesn’t even come close to yours. You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, I would lo-like some tea, please,” John says hastily. 

Sherlock bussies himself in the kitchen, performing the ritual tasks of making tea: boiling water, placing two cups and spoons on a tray, filling the teapot and placing tealeaves in a sieve. He opened the fridge and his shoulders lower. 

He turns around to John. “I appear to have forgotten to buy milk.”

John smiles stiffly. “No problem.” _I could do with something bitter._

They sit down opposite each other and John lamely points at the bag he carried and which Sherlock has failed to notice. 

“I brought you some soup,” John clarifies. “Have you eaten already?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No.”

“How long has it been, then?”

“What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

“Oh. I don’t know then. Case. Doesn’t matter anymore. It doesn’t stay down anyway.”

John downs his tea, making a face when he swallows the now lukewarm liquid. He stands and walks towards the kitchen like it is his own, warms the soup and offers a bowl and a spoon to Sherlock. Both men sit down and slowly watch the other eat. 

Sherlock looks good. He looks well. His curls are still as dark as always, but his hands tremble and he slowly sips from the soup like a man who has returned to civilisation after spending years on his own in the wilderness.

Suddenly Sherlock’s eyes meet John’s, and his hand carrying the spoon stops mid-way between his mouth and the bowl. 

John smiles only slightly, politely. It was too early –or too late – to think about that now. “You need to stop it though,” he says after a long silence. 

“Stop what?”

“You know what. I don’t understand. It’ll kill you.”

“It slows down the brainwork. A man can have too much to think about sometimes. And besides, if I die it doesn’t matter, I never fully came back from that anyway. Why have you?” 

John looks at him, gathering thoughts but most of all courage. He pretty much knows what he wants. “Maybe to ask for a chance?”

Sherlock just looks at him, until his spoon drops to his bowl with a soft clang and his eyes soon follow. London seems to answer for Sherlock with horns honking and an ambulance warbling far away.

John clears his throat, “If you say no, I quite understand. I deserve it if you toss me out immediately. But I, erm… I only bought a one-way ticket.”

“Are you saying you want to come home?”

“I do. I mean this is…home. I’m not saying today, I know you will want to think it over and we should definitely set some rules…guidelines –“

“Yes.” Sherlock sits stiffly, keeping his eyes down, he is breathing through his mouth and looks somewhat ill.

“I don’t want to put any pressure on you. I know you have just –“

“Yes.”

“That’s it? Just yes? Don’t you want to, I don’t know, sort things out a bit?’

Sherlock grins. He inhales. “You brought me soup, not because you thought all the restaurants in London took the day off, but because you want to feed me, be alone, talk. You don’t want to do it in public and it is that need to care for things that made you ride all the way from Cardiff, making sure it didn’t spill or leak onto your clothing. You brought it in a disposable container, intending to leave it for me even if I turned you away. 

"You didn’t come on a random day, you obviously know I spent the last few days out of town on a case, you’ve read about it in the newspapers, but you planned to come around when I would likely wake up, and be hungry. You brought an over-night bag, just in case I said no. You also planned that if we talked late, you could stay at Greg’s, or some small hotel because you have formal pajamas in here which means you don’t plan to kip on the couch in your pants with Lestrade. You aren’t hungry, because you ate on the train, sandwich, there’s mustard on your breath, yet you ate the soup with me, probably because you want me to eat. 

"You are wearing aftershave, not just any aftershave, but the aftershave I purchased for you for Christmas eight years ago, which means either you still wear the scent I chose for you, not likely because you wanted to forget I exist for years… But mostly because it can only be purchased from a merchant on Westminster and you don’t have the mix number, which means you know I designed that scent for you, and you have cherished it, stored it properly, and yet you hoped I would notice the gesture, just like the jumper. So that means you didn’t throw it away neither when I was gone nor in all the time afterwards, most likely because it meant something to you despite that it came from me. 

"When did you decide you forgave me? Before or after my mistaken foolishness? Probably you were close, before. You sent me a gift that I would like, hoping I would get the joke, but that would have no use to Matthew other than the avoidance of food poisoning. But you were not ready to speak to me yet. Now you are. You have thought extensively about this conversation, because you already knew you would bring it up, seeing this is the goal of this visit. Further information about how I live didn’t change your mind. You looked like you were on a case as soon as you arrived and saw my arms, and you see I have made some unfortunate choices in your absence but you are not mad. You know, yet still asked for permission to come home. Am I wrong?”

John inhales deeply like a smoker craving for nicotine. He closes his eyes for a fragment of a second and then looks at his friend who sits opposite him. A faint grin tugs at the corners of John’s mouth. “God, I missed that.”

Sherlock’s face falls slightly, “What did I miss?”

John chuckles, “There are onions in the soup. You hate onions.”

“Idiot. If you put foxglove in it I would eat it. Well, until the symptoms overcame me.” 

A smile, so very much Sherlock, doesn’t go by unnoticed by John. It starts with a small glimmer coming to life in his eyes, then droping down to his mouth. First the right corner of Sherlock’s mouth moves upward and then the left corner drops, creating the smirk John has missed so much. 

The bright grey pools focus on John and for fraction of a moment the past eight years slip away. They are back in 2011, the year before it all happened. Before The Woman, the Hound and the Fall. Before Buckingham Palace and the Sheet. Before the “I don’t have friend, I only got one” scene. Before their friendship ebcame closer and difficult. Before either fell in love with the other.

John can’t bring himself to diverting his eyes and breathes heavily as he faintly answers Sherlock’s smile. 

When the moment has flashed away, the eight years weigh greatly on John’s shoulders. He gasps and turns his head away to place the empty bowl on the much-abused coffee table.

Sherlock lowers his eyes again, staring at the cold content of his half-finished bowl. 

John doesn’t leave Baker Street after this conversation. He climbs the stairs when it is time to go to bed, and finds his room just as bare as he left it eight years ago. He makes his bed and slides between the sheets.

He closes his eyes and hears the soft, soothing notes from the violin floating up the stairs, allowing him to bathe in them and slowly carrying him off to sleep. 

To Be Continued.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sherlock still has his cases although more sparse than he used to have. He spends his days in the kitchen sitting behind the microscope, or on the sofa, blindly staring at the ceiling or at the back of his eyelids. 

When there is a new case John sometimes accompanies him, but he never finds himself enjoying it as thoroughly as he used to. Donovan, Dimmock, Anderson; all are gone, located in another corps, another town. 

John knows that the lack of enjoyment and thrills that usually came with a new case is mainly because of Sherlock. He simply misses the swirl that made the cases always that exciting. He simply looks, notices, deduces and tells his findings without arrogance, without his usual flourish, without the witty remarks. It is a whole different Sherlock. 

The only factor that remains constant is Mrs. Hudson. The long-suffering landlady is the only one who doesn’t know what to think about John’s return. She keeps it to herself, of course. John’s return made Sherlock a little livelier, and that is all Mrs. Hudson cares about these days.

She often climbs the stairs late at night to check on Sherlock. She sits down on the sofa without saying anything, just looking at Sherlock or listening to his violin music. She makes tea and coffee and cleans the house when both her ‘boys’ don’t have the time. Her hip troubles her of course, but the herbal soothers often help out.

Things have definitely changed. John doesn’t have to force Sherlock to eat any more. When John makes toast, Sherlock eats it. When John makes tea or coffee, Sherlock drinks it. 

One morning, John comes down from his bedroom and looks for Sherlock who stood erect at the window when John had gone upstairs to brush his teeth, the violin forgotten in his arms as he stared out of the window, seeing nothing.

He is not there anymore. John scans the room and sees today’s newspaper lying on the table. He frowns, he is sure the paper was not there when they had breakfast, so might that be the reason of Sherlock’s departure? He might have read something about a new case.

He glances over the newspaper, seeing the article in the gossip area, and pales. He bites his lip as he sits down, grabbing the newspaper with his left hand. 

_A Revealing Insight in Life with a Consulting Detective. By **Conrad Chamberlain.**_

_Sherlock Holmes, renowned detective, married Matthew Morstan four years ago. The story about how he faked his death was world news, just as the absence of his blogger, Doctor John H. Watson. After three years of marriage, Matthew turned out to have cheated on the detective, having an affair with a forensic he met at one of the many crime scenes he visited with his husband._

_Matthew admits to have committed adultery, but he also explains why, and how his marriage to Sherlock Holmes affected his life. Matthew wants to come clean about his marriage and why he acted the way he did. He claims Sherlock was frigid, incapable of love. He was also aggressive, and Matthew tells us Sherlock was, or is, a frequent drugs user. Matthew wanted a divorce, but Sherlock didn’t want to, saying it would affect his public image. Matthew tells us all in a revealing and enlightening interview. Read the complete article tomorrow, or go to our website for a preview._

John closes the newspaper and buries his head in his hands. Suddenly his head shoots up and he glances around him. Where has Sherlock run off to?

He grabs his phone and speed dials Sherlock. He waits until he hears Sherlock’s tune ringing high-pitched from between the pillows on the sofa. 

He disconnects and dials Mycroft’s phone number.

“Hello John, why the honour?” Mycroft says coolly as soon as he picks up the phone.

“Have you read the newspaper?” John demands to know.

Mycroft sighs. “I have.”

“Where is Sherlock?”

John can almost hear Mycroft frown. “What do you mean? Isn’t he at Baker Street?”

“If he were I wouldn’t ask you, would I?” John snaps.

“Correct. Excuse me for a moment,” Mycroft says, and John can hear him snap his fingers at someone near. “Find me Sherlock!” he hears Mycroft demand.

Less than a minute later, John is on his way to Bart’s, where Mycroft’s men have localised the detective.

John gets out of the cab and looks up. He sighs from relieve when he doesn’t see Sherlock standing on the edge like he feared for a moment. He runs inside, takes the stairs with three steps at the time and reaches the roof breathlessly.

“Sherlock!” he yells at Sherlock’s back. “What the hell..?”

The detective turns his head ever so slightly and looks over his shoulder at his flat mate. “John.”

John pants and tries to catch his breath. “Wha- what are yo-you doing he-here?” he tries again,

Sherlock grimaces. “I’m standing here.”

“I read the newspaper.” John takes a few steps closer to Sherlock. “Matthew is lying.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “How can you be so sure?”

“You don’t give a toss about a public image.”

Sherlock smiles and turns away from John again. 

John’s shoulders lower in disappointment. “Your brother once told me, that you had the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet you elected to be a detective. He asked me what I would deduce about your heart.”

“John, if you feel uncomfortable about what I said all those years ago-” Sherlock doesn’t finish his sentence, but just looks over the city, listening to the roaring of the traffic far below.

“No, it’s nothing like that, Sherlock. Listen to me,” John says, gently, persuading Sherlock to turn around.

Sherlock’s shoulders relax ever so slightly and he turns fully to face his former friend.

When John meets Sherlock’s eyes, he swallows hard. The grey eyes are filled with tears to the brim, unreadable storms whirling in them. “I don’t have to deduce anything about your heart, Sherlock. You told me, all those years ago, and you showed me all you had to give. Now I just want to know… Do you still feel the same?”

Sherlock hesitates, but nods anyway.

John’s eyes soften. “Then deduce _me_ , Sherlock.”

It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes long to deduce the truth. In fact, he already had: the cashmere jumper and the customised aftershave were quite the give-away. But to be able to deduce it, and trust it to be true and not just a willful figment of his imagination is a greater relief than any drug.

He pulls his bottom-lip in his mouth to stop it from trembling. He wants to walk over to John, but the short soldier extends his hands, palms forward as if to push Sherlock away, at the same time stepping away from Sherlock, closer to the door.

“Stay exactly where you are, because I can’t say it-”

“You don’t have to say anything, John. I know,” Sherlock says, stretching his hand toward John. 

“But I want to say it, Sherlock. I have been a fool. I hurt you, and it took me so long to finally see. I want to know if you still want me, because I do. I want you, Sherlock. All of you, but can you trust me after all what I did to you?”

But he really doesn’t have to say it, because Sherlock knows. He closes the distance between the two of them and there he stands, towering over his flat mate. Blue eyes lock in grey orbs.   
Sherlock gingerly cups John’s jaw with his slender hands and gently pulls the doctor closer to him, never breaking eye contact. His piercing and indecipherable gaze unsettles John, but he doesn’t want to look away. 

Before Sherlock closes the distance completely, he whispers in John’s ear, “I have been waiting for this for so long, John.” He inhales unsteadily. When he breathes out, his words are almost inaudible. “So long...”

Finally, he softly presses his full lips against John’s and waits, almost as if he is scared of hurting John. Gingerly, John moves his lips, and whimpers soflty when Sherlock presses just a little firmer.

John’s hands rest on Sherlock’s hips, trying to anchor himself.

They kiss carefully and inquisitive for a minute, their hearts beating frantically in their chests, blood pumping through their veins, waiting for the other to deepen the kiss, and Sherlock is able to surprise John by carefully touching John’s bottom lip with his tongue, asking entrance.

When John reacts and opens his mouth to let Sherlock in, Sherlock backs away, gasping for breath. He stares in John’s bright blue eyes and shakes his head.

“Too soon.” Sherlock’s hand drops heavily to his side. He grimaces, “It can be a bit too much.”

John nods silently, and watches Sherlock stretching his hand and curling his slender fingers around John’s calloused ones. He lifts their locked hands and places it at his heart. He smiles a faint smile and then allows John’s hand to drop.

John sighs. He feels filled, content and strangely happy. When Sherlock continues being silent, he says, “I have been so stupid, Sherlock. I kept you waiting for all those years; I made myself unhappy by pushing away the only man I’ve ever loved. Have I ruined it?”

Sherlock doesn’t turn away from his friend. He lowers his eyes and stares at the flat grey roof beneath his feet. “John, if there ever was one to ruin it, it would be me. Don’t hold yourself responsible.”

“But I—I am so sorry, Sherlock.”

“John…” Sherlock breathes, finally turning around. “I am happier now than I ever thought I would be.”

“Will- Will it last?”

“No one can know, John, surely I don’t have to tell you?”

John shakes his head. He bites his lip and opens his mouth as if to say something. He changes his mind and turns briskly to leave the roof. Sherlock watches him slamming the door. 

Some outside force makes Sherlock lift his right hand up to his cheek, only to meet wet skin. He wipes his face carefully and stares spellbound at his wet finger. 

….

John comes home late that evening. Sherlock waits for him in the living room, trying to divert his thoughts by playing the violin softly. When John steps over the threshold and shrugs off his coat, Sherlock walks towards him in utter silence, leaving the violin on the chair, and hugs him. John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s back and pulls him close. He lays his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, just under Sherlock’s chin. 

“I will let you go soon,” Sherlock whispers. “Just some more…”

“Never let me go, Sherlock.”

When they let the other go, they carefully entwine their fingers. Sherlock leads John to his bedroom. 

Sherlock watches on as John undresses himself and slides between the sheets, none of them feeling the need to say anything. When John stops fidgeting with the covers and is finally comfortable, Sherlock undresses too and slips next to his friend. Lover.

John rolls over to his side and gently places his right arm over Sherlock’s stomach. 

The softly whispered words were barely heard except by Sherlock. “This won’t last.”

The sighed reply was heard only by the soldier. “I know, John.”

…

Mycroft takes care of the newspaper. The interview is never published.

…

The next morning, John wakes up beside Sherlock, who is still soundly asleep. John props himself up to one elbow and traces Sherlock’s jaw with a feather-light touch. Sherlock sighs sleepily and smiles, his eyes still close. 

“Good morning,” John greets softly.

“‘Morning, love.” 

“Calling me love already, isn’t that a bit too soon?” John teases, tracing his fingers over Sherlock’s arm, leaving goose bumps in their way.

“Mmm… I waited eight years, I doubt that would be too soon to simply call you what you are,” Sherlock quips back, clearly more awake now.

He rolls over to his back and looks up at John. “Kiss me, John.”

John blinks to get rid of the tears, but bows his head nevertheless and presses a tender, gentle kiss to those wonderful lips. 

He leaves the bed and walks over to the kitchen where he puts the kettle on. “Do you want some toast, Sherlock?” he calls, but he doesn’t receive an answer.

John frowns and walks back to the bedroom, but Sherlock is not there. Then he hears the sounds of retching coming from the bath room and John flinches.

….

“Mycroft, I want his medical files. I want them this afternoon, or I will come to your place and get them anyway.”

“John, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can, and you will.”

Later that day, Mycroft pops by to bring John the files. “He is very ill, John, he might not live to see the end of this year,” Mycroft warns. Then suddenly his gaze softens as he takes in John’s appearance. “And congratulations are in order, I see.” He leaves not much later.

John doesn’t tell Sherlock that his brother gave him his medical files. Instead he decides to dedicate his life and health to Sherlock, so that Sherlock will live. The files don’t leave much room for imagination. The end of the year approaches and leaves, leaving Sherlock in peace.

John texts to Mycroft: “The end of the year has gone. Sherlock is still here, safe and sound, nothing happened yet, thank god. Do you want to come over? We have some cake left.”

He receives a reply. “Sadly enough it’s only a matter of time, Doctor Watson. Treasure it. I will be there in 30 minutes.”

…

Some days after the belated New Year’s Day, John sits in the living room at leisure. Sherlock opens the door from the bedroom and enters the living room. 

Without looking John says, “Hear this, Sherlock. You’ll solve it in seconds. The neighbour of the prime minister was found dead this morn- ”

“John,” Sherlock chokes.

Immediately alarmed, John turns to face his friend. Sherlock is bent over, his arm presses tightly against his abdomen. His face is distorted in pain and there is a strange light in his eyes.

“Let’s get you to a hospital,” John says, putting his paper away and helping Sherlock in his coat. 

...

To be Continued.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Arriving at the hospital, Sherlock is placed in a bed immediately and wheeled away quickly. Two hours later John is allowed entrance to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock lies flat between the white sheets, his pale skin and dark curls forming a sharp contrast, a needle inserted in his vein. The only noises John hears is the soft, regular beeping of the heart monitor and Sherlock’s shallow breathing.

Sherlock opens his eyes when he hears John’s footsteps approaching. “Hello.” He coughs hoarsely, his throat sore from vomiting.

“Apparently the doctors were rather troubled with you, Sherlock,” John jokes lamely.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock says, extending his hand to John. 

John walks over to the bed. “For what?” He takes Sherlock’s hand and looks down at the man in the bed. 

“Not telling you I was ill.”

“Ah. I am a doctor, Sherlock. It wasn’t too difficult to figure that one out. Mycroft did give me your medical files, though.”

“Áh. You must help me remember to hit him.”

John grins and sits down beside the bed in an uncomfortable white plastic chair. “Oh, I will. But I told you, you should have stopped taking drugs.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, he is so tired, but he still manages to flash John his ‘obivously’ smile. 

“Oi, come here!” John says, leaning over to Sherlock. He softly places his lips to Sherlock’s, combing his fingers through the curls which start to turn grey at the temples. Sherlock’s hand grips John’s jumper, to never let go.

After Sherlock breaks the kiss, gasping for air, John presses his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I love you.”

“I know, John. I think you always did.”

“And I kept you waiting for so long. I wasted all those years.”

Sherlock smiles. It isn’t a grimace of pain, or of spite, or of arrogance. It is a genuine smile of love, affection, gratefulness, gratitude to be still alive to experience this. “Oh, doctor Watson, ye of little faith, you won’t be able to get rid of me so soon,” he scolds his friend. “I am not that easily done with.”

He kisses John’s again and whispers afterwards, “We are not that easily done with.”

John wants to believe that so badly.

…

John quietly leaves the room half an hour later when Sherlock dozes off. He fishes his phone out of his trouser pockets and sends Sherlock’s brother a message. 

“It has started. Bart’s, room 541, left wing. JW”

…

John visits the hospital daily, and every day Sherlock looks worse. 

Often they will just sit together, fingers entwined and in complete silence. Nurses come and go, doctors check his status and leave.

On one of the rainier days, Sherlock waits for John, and when he finally arrives, Sherlock says, “John, you need to stop blaming yourself.”

John smiles grimly. “I see you in my dreams, Sherlock. You beg for me to return, I simply close the door. Your eyes, it’s always your eyes.”

“Sit down, John,” Sherlock says gently. “We need to talk.”

John sits down, unwilling to talk. He prefers the shared silence and the handholding. 

“John, I know I am going to die-”

“Don’t say that!” John cries, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock pats his hand reassuringly. “It’s the truth, John. We have been running for too long, it’s time to stop.”

“Running from what?” John shakes his head. 

“Destiny, John. We have been running away from it, we thought we could win. Those past months have been the best in my life, and I think… I think it was worth the wait. I love you, John.   
Marrying Matthew was such a mistake. I wanted him to be you, but he wasn’t. You know, I thought I could do this, but… I think it’s time to give up.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, his breathing turns shallow.

John holds his breath. 

“John,” Sherlock suddenly speaks. “It’s time we both accept this and let go.” 

“Your life is not yours to let go, Sherlock. It is mine, all mine, and I forbid it!”

Sherlock shakes his head. “My life isn’t yours. My heart, that is yours and it always was.”

“Stop it, stop this. You just feel depressed. Don’t do this to me. I am taking you home, and we will work our way through this,” John insists, busying himself with preparing everything to get Sherlock home. 

…

That night, after another bout of painful retching, Sherlock slides between the sheets, exhausted. John’s arm envelopes him as soon as Sherlock’s head sinks into the pillow. He slowly flips himself over so he can face John. Blue eyes, filled with warmth and love meet cool and distant grey. John’s hand runs over Sherlock’s smooth chest, up to his neck and jaw, tracing his lips and cheeks until John’s callused fingers rest on Sherlock’s eyebrows and eyelids. 

He presses his index finger against Sherlock’s temple and whispers, “please… will you let me in, Sherlock? I pushed you away, please pull be back.” His eyes are pleading, demanding without force.

Sherlock closes his eyes, and when they open John gazes into deep, bottomless abysses of grey, slippery walls, unable to get a grip on them. John blinks, frightened by the emptiness, but Sherlock simply smiles. 

“Look deeper, John.”

And John does. He gasps for breath when he sees that the abysses are pools, filled to the brim with crystal clear water, filled to the brim and spilling over with love. 

John swallows and tears his eyes away from Sherlock and lowers them to the soft pillow his head lies on. “I said to myself, all those years ago, that I didn’t plan to drown. Now there is nothing that I want more. I was so wrong.” John sobs as he buries his head in Sherlock’s curls. “I have been so stupid!”

Sherlock can’t bring himself to say anything; his throat is raw from held-back tears. He can only fold his arms around his soldier.

Sherlock’s tears match John’s, like long-lost twin that finally meet after a life-time of being alone. 

“I love you so much,” John cries, “Please, may I make you mine? All mine? I don’t want Matthew to be your owner, the one who made love to you. I want to own you. I want you to be mine and I want to be yours.”

With John pleading like Sherlock did, six years ago, he cannot refuse, and he nods. He breathes, “I want to be yours. Make me yours, John.” His fingers reach out to John’s face. “All yours.”

Their lips meet again, filled with hunger and lust and passion. Their bodies entwine underneath the sheets. John sobs when he makes Sherlock his, and only his.

…

The next day when they both wake up, there is nothing awkward. John makes tea, but both men remain in bed for the remaining morning. Sherlock feels too weak to do anything else, and John is pretty much content to stay where he is.

…

The next week, they have to go to the hospital again, and John realises the end is drawing nearer and nearer. He told Sherlock not to give up, his life and body and heart belong to him now, but he can sense that, for Sherlock, it has been enough. 

Every time when he brings him home, they fall asleep together, locked in the other’s embrace. 

…

“Good morning, sunshine!” John greets his lover cheerfully. 

Sherlock opens his eyes and smiles fondly at John. “You are here?”

“Of course. Look, I brought you a book.” John holds up a copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s collected works. “I thought you might like it, The Black Cat is in there,” he rambles on and on until Sherlock interrupts him.

“John?” He waits for John to respond, he needs John’s complete attention.

“Yes?”

“I wanted to ask you something.” Sherlock chews his lip and hardly dares to look at John.

“Okay, go ahead,” John invites.

Sherlock smiles and lifts his eyes, gathering his courage. Now, his eyes don’t leave John’s face for a second, “I, Sherlock Holmes, take you, John Watson, to be my partner in life and my one true love. I will cherish our union and love you more each day than I did the day before. I will trust you and respect you, laugh with you and cry with you, loving you faithfully through good times and bad times, regardless of the obstacles we may face together. I give you my hand, my heart and my love, from this day forward until we die.”

John stares blankly at his lover. “What?”

“I have practiced these words since you came back to me. Do you feel the same?” 

John looks up, touched by the nervousness he finds in that wonderful voice. “Of course I do!” 

“Then, John, will you marry me?” Sherlock extends his hand, palm upwards. In the palm of his pale slender hand shines a plain gold band.

John giggles nervously, suddenly reduced to an overly romantic teen. “You’re proposing in a hospital?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I wanted to do it at a crime-scene, but that isn’t going to happen any more.”

John smiles and gingerly accepts the ring. “I will marry you, Sherlock. Always.”

Sherlock grins and closes his eyes. 

“Are you tired?”

Sherlock nods slowly. 

“I’ll leave you alone then. I’ll be back soon.” He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s clammy forehead and leaves the room.

…

Every time John has to rush Sherlock to the hospital, he feels like dragging himself towards the finish of a marathon he never wanted to walk in the first place. He would have been very content to just stay at home, in bed, with Sherlock. His fiancé Sherlock. Who would have thought?

…

Their wedding is a small one, only Sherlock, John, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson attend. They exchange rings and their vows, they kiss, they cut the cake and go home on their honeymoon. 

…

One evening, John finds Sherlock standing in the living room, his face turned towards the window. He holds his violin in his arms, caressing it absently. John watches him slowly lift the instrument to his shoulder and brings the bow up with his other hand. With one soft stroke, Sherlock brings the violin to life. 

The notes are high and shrill, resonating through the room, through John’s body and soul. He sits down, afraid his legs might give way to the heartbreaking notes that swirl around.  
Half-way through the song, Sherlock turns around, his grey, impenetrable eyes fixed unwaveringly on John until he finishes.

John doesn’t look away from the man that stands before him. He is whisked back to the man he once met, all those years ago. He looks at the man that would never run away from danger, only closer and closer. He looks at the man who can cut him down with just one look, the man who made him feel alive, the man who is healthy and strong. 

When the music stops, Sherlock’s shoulders lower, and he has to stabilise himself to his chair. He grins at John. “Mind over matter, it doesn’t work any more.”

“That was beautiful, Sherlock,” John whispers as he helps Sherlock to sit down in his chair. 

“Give me my violin,” Sherlock breathes.

John gives it to him, realising Sherlock might never play again.

…

When Sherlock collapses unconscious in their shower, John knows this will be Sherlock’s last journey to the hospital. He helps Sherlock in his coat for the last time, fastens the blue scarf with practiced precision, all the while avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. It is a sanctified ritual what John performs. 

He hails a cab and not much later Sherlock is placed in a white, private room with his husband beside his bed.

Sherlock’s breathing hitches, and John holds his own breath in rhythm with Sherlock’s.

John clutches the pale hand that rests on the white sheets and holds it to his heart, the same movement Sherlock has made months ago. 

“This is it, isn’t it?” Sherlock’s eyes lifts to meet John’s face. His other hand rises to John’s face and traces all the lines that rest there. “You are beautiful.”

“We are beautiful,” John breathes, copying the words Sherlock once said, and suddenly he can’t hold his sobs back. “I don’t want you to go, Sherlock!’ he cries, tears rolling down his cheeks, moisturising Sherlock’s fingers. “I have just found you! I don’t want you to go. I need you, please, don’t leave me alone!” 

He almost chokes on his own words and grabs Sherlock’s hand harder. “I-I don’t want to be alone any more, I want to be with you, grow old with you!” 

He leans down and locks their lips together. 

Sherlock kisses back, grabs John’s head with both his hands and holds him close, so that he can see him properly. John closes his eyes, and silent tears fall down as he covers Sherlock’s hands with his own.

When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his breathing is ragged. “I love you, John. So much.”

John nods, only paying half his attention to the words because he knows Sherlock needs a nurse and a shot morphine. He pats Sherlock’s hand and gets to his feet. 

“I won’t be long, Sherlock.” He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s lips and caresses his face. “I’ll find a nurse who ca give you something for the pain. You stay here.”

Sherlock smirks halfheartedly. “I am not going anywhere soon, John.”

When John leaves the room, he can’t help but be happy about the fact all the necessary paperwork is finished and taken care off. He wants to pay all his attention to Sherlock from now on.

He finds a nurse and rushes her back to Sherlock’s room. He opens the door, and one glance at his husband is enough.

Sherlock lies still and pale in the bed, his chest motionless. His eyes stare into nothingness, his hand still clutched at his chest where his heart is. He has finally given up.

John walks over to the bed while the nurse is busy with her pager. He closes Sherlock’s eyes with a gentle movement of his hand and grabs the clutched hand with his own, the contrast of their rings with living and dead skin unbearable. 

Suddenly he sees something white stucking out from Sherlock’s hand that rests on top of his heart. 

Gingerly, John opens the hand and picks up the small, crumpled piece of paper. 

On it, written in Sherlock’s recognisable spidery handwriting,

“’Sweetest love, I do not go For weariness of do, nor in hope the world can show A fitter love for me.’  
Dearest John, when you find this, I have, most likely, died. This poem is from John Donne, and I thought it fitting. You will know why. I wrote this, just to be able to thank you, for all that you did for me. If there is such a thing as a heaven, those past months would resemble it. Thank you John, for doing me the honour of being your husband at last. Yours,   
for ever,   
SH.”

He feels a firm hand grip his shoulder but he doesn’t turn. He stares at Sherlock. His friend, love, husband is really gone.

...


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end. I'm sorry.

Chapter 8

Two years later, John stands alone on Bart’s deserted rooftop. It is almost twelve o’ clock at night and it is raining softly. The lights on the streets below reflect dully on the wet pavement. The moon is nowhere to be seen. She’s not there because she doesn’t want to disturb the private events of tonight.

John is grateful for Molly’s assistance; she gave him the key, understanding what he had to do. Alone. It’s all he has.

“You once told me you wouldn’t leave, that you would just remain where you were.” He slowly unscrews the lid and lifts the urn in front of him. 

He continues, staring at the sad content of the urn, “But I thought, staying on the mantelpiece might be too dull for you, I am sure you’re bored out of your wits already. I hope they have walls you can shoot, up there.”

He tilts the urn gently and the ash is taking up by the wind and gently carried away. Softly whispering, John sighs, “I give you my hand, my heart and my love, from this day forward until I die, too.”

He drops the now empty urn carelessly on the roof and puts both his hands deep in his trouser pockets, watching into the deep darkness. He exhales, shivering, his breath creating fragile clouds in the cool and damp air. They are easily scattered by the heavenly raindrops. 

It is all over. 

Somehow, he is relieved, perhaps even a little happy in some strange way. Perhaps Sherlock was content with the way their marriage ended. He might have gotten bored with John anyway. 

Two months of marriage hardly make up for eight years of loneliness, but John is grateful to have had them anyway. 

A voice startles him out of his reverie. “John?”

John smiles. “Yes?”

“I think it is time to go. My experiments need attending to. Are you coming home with me?”

John turns and looks up at the taller man with the long dark coat, the expensive shoes and the windswept mop of dark hair. It’s a man with the silver eyes who looks down at him, a soft smile in the abyss-eyes. It’s always the eyes. The eyes are the last to go.

It’s the beautiful man with the swirling grey-green eyes who extends his hand to the smaller man and entwines their ten fingers. 

It’s the smaller man with the blue eyes, beaming up at his flat mate, friend and husband, who answers, “Of course.”

They vanish, the roof suddenly feels cold. 

…

John enters Baker Street alone. He walks up the stairs and into the kitchen. He could do with some soothing tea. 

With the cuppa in his hand, he stands still in front of the mantelpiece. 

He looks at the pictures he has there, some of them made at the day of their civil partnership ceremony, others were taken from his collection he had saved under his bed.   
His gaze glides over the hunting knife and the ever-growing pile of unopened post. Soon he would have to buy another knife.  
His eyes dart further, resting on a framed piece of paper, covered in wriggly handwriting.

John smiles sadly as he gingerly touches the cold glass with his warm fingers. He mumbles, “Sweetest love, I do not go…”

His gaze then finally rests on the skull and he chuckles as his fingers ghost over the white cheekbones. “It’d been better if you were to come with me, Sherlock. A skull really does attract attention,” he grins to no one in particular. “Well, I can’t say you didn’t warn me, though.”

After a last stroke with his thumb over the cheekbones, John turns his back to the skull and sits down in Sherlock’s battered chair, staring at the empty entrance as if waiting for a tall, dark-haired, stunningly beautiful man in a long coat to storm in and whisk him away to adventure and joy and running and shared jokes and catching breaths and love. 

His forgotten cup of tea cools in his warm hands. 

…

The rain has a free hand in London that night. 

Rain has many meanings. 

It can be cold and heartbreaking, often relating to something so very very sad and lonely. 

Sometimes, the softly falling rain forebodes change. It tells us about cleansing, purification, starting afresh, often promising some silver linings behind the clouds. 

It doesn’t this time. This time it does tell about sadness, loneliness. The rain is not solid or heavy, but persistent, soaking the few pedestrians who dare defy its accounts of grief.

Angels do cry, after all. 

 

THE END.


End file.
